


Red Sun, Red Silk

by dawnstruck



Series: Second Chances 'verse [7]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Voyeurism, Rough Sex, Shoddy politics, Xing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-07 01:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10349394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: And the emperor of the largest, oldest, most powerful nation in the world drags his dark eyes along the line of Edward's body.





	1. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the next installment of the De-Aging 'verse or, if you are a new reader, just welcome, but you really should check out the previous parts of this series, otherwise this won't make much sense.
> 
> Way way back when I was posting the first chapter of SCST, someone asked whether Ling would appear at some point and I said yes. Now, I had not yet watched Brotherhood at that point and, as this story is set in the '03 'verse, it has honestly taken me this long to work my way up to the point where it was reasonable to really introduce him to the story. I hope the wait was worth it. :)

The capital of Xing is just as impressive as it was the last time, and so is the imperial palace.

Its red roofs seem to be aflame under the light of morning, supported by intricately painted pillars and a thousand steps carved into stone.

Roy has been here once before but Ed and Al have not and, as they make their way up those same steps, he can see them crane their heads, trying to take everything in, their eyes almost as wide as their open mouths.

While Al's childish delight may seem adorable, Roy only has to let out an amused huff to have Edward quickly snap his mouth shut and jerk his gaze ahead again.

“Worth it?” Roy teases and Ed's face scrunches up.

“Worth it,” he admits grudgingly, though he had complained throughout their entire journey.

Making the track through the Eastern desert had admittedly been a symbolical gesture, one that was meant to represent goodwill and perseverance. It also looked quite good in the papers, especially when compared with how little time it would take for them to travel back in the newly inaugurated Eastern Express.

For now, though, they are to be honorable guests of Xing. For now they meet the emperor.

As they make their slow ascend, the city below them is already busy with its daily demands, vendors praising their ware, carts being pushed around, dogs barking, neighbors chatting. Taiyang is so similar to Central City and yet so different.

Central, with its cobblestone streets, impressive architecture and somber ornaments, feels so young in comparison, like a child trying to act more grown-up. Taiyang, on the other hand, is like an ageless woman who, throughout all the years, maintains her mature beauty.

Roy is not exactly envious, but he sees the potential. Central still has much of its history lying ahead. They would get there eventually.

Their guide leads them through winding corridors and unnecessarily big doors until they finally reach the throne room which, no surprise there, is also unnecessarily big, lined with even more pillars and tapestries and courtiers who might as well be tapestries with how richly they are dressed.

At the far end of the hall, the emperor is seated on an elevated throne, his elaborate robes artfully draped around him. The windows high along the walls are arranged in such a way that, whatever the time of day, the sun will illuminate him, as long as the skies are clear.

The Son of Heaven, one of his official titles names him, and accordingly, like Taiyang itself, Emperor Ling Yao is strangely unreadable, a monument whose plaque has been worn smooth over the years.

It is almost impossible to believe that this man is a year younger than Ed. If Roy had not meet him before, he would be intimidated.

“His Excellency Führer President Roy Elric-Mustang,” a courtier announces grandly, moving aside and beckoning Roy to step forward at the same time.

In one smooth movement, Ling Yao rises from his throne and then slowly descends the steps until the two of them stand as equals. Like this, he is only about as tall as Roy, though his crown and his clothing make him appear larger than life.

Roy stands before him in worn travel clothes, sweat stains instead of regalia, but just at his back are Edward and Alphonse with their twin heads of gold, and he does not feel powerless.

“Your Majesty,” Roy inclines his head, not quite a bow, but just enough to show his honest respect.

Ling Yao does the same.

“Your Excellency,” he says, “We welcome you into our palace and our home. It is a joyous occasion.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Roy replies with a beatific smile, “Since my last visit I have been bragging to anyone who would listen about Xingese hospitality.”

“Then we will not disappoint your expectations this time either,” Ling Yao spreads his arms, his long sleeves trailing over the polished stone underneath their feet, “All the pleasures of Taiyang shall be at your fingertips.”

“My greatest pleasure travels with me,” Roy claims, gracious, “This time, I have brought my family to see Xing as well.

“Ah,” Ling Yao says knowingly and then his his gaze moves to Edward, “The famed consort. I have heard much about you, Edward Elric-Mustang.”

Ed's eyebrow gives a telltale twitch but he maintains his composure.

“Only good things, I hope,” he replies civilly.

“Of course,” Ling Yao smiles, “You must already know that, once your husband begins singing your praises, it is difficult to make him stop.”

A blush rises to Ed's cheeks and he flickers a sideways glace at Roy before looking ahead again, “Exaggerations, I'm sure.”

“No,” and the Emperor of the largest, oldest, most powerful nation in the world, drags his dark eyes along the line of Edward's body, “No, I don't think so.”

The corner of Roy's mouth twitches. Ed and Ling keep looking at each other, like an alley cat and a palace cat seizing each other up. Ling is the first to look away but it does not feel like a defeat. Instead, he gives Alphonse a welcoming, much less back-handed smile, before turning back to Ed.

“Your younger brother, I presume?” he asks slyly, even though he very well knows that the Führer President's boy would join the party.

Ed freezes. “My son.”

“You look too young to have been raising a child for over a decade,” Ling Yao points out and whatever way you turn it it's both an insult and a compliment at the same time.

Ed bares his teeth, “You look too young to have been ruling a nation for over a decade.”

The emperor inclines his head, conceding Ed's point.

“True,” he admits, “We were young when our exalted father passed. But the crown was passed on to us due to our blood. You have accomplished much as well.”

Roy... is not quite sure what Ling Yao is trying to achieve. Does he want to butter them up with sweet words? Is he trying to pick at suspected scars, at how young Ed is and how his place as Roy's side is a waste of his talents?

Edward, obviously, has trouble judging the emperor's intentions as well, and he does not like being backed into a corner. Luckily, there is someone else who knows how to defuse a tense situation.

“My father teaches the basics of alkahestry,” Al pipes up, excitedly rocking back on his heels, “But I've always been interested in healing.”

It's a charming little act, Roy has to admit. Al knows exactly how to mime the bright-eyed, naive child. But he has inherited both Edward's vicious streak and Roy's instincts for sidestepping mine fields. Alphonse is lethal like a time bomb that blows up in your face when you least expect it.

He has just turned twelve and Roy can only imagine what a riot he will be once puberty strikes. Their family would have to face some challenges yet.

“We, unfortunately, have not been gifted with a talent for alkahestry and only possess a basic understanding of it,” Ling Yao tells Alphonse without false humility, “But one of our sisters is blessed with extraordinary prowess. She is our head physician and would surely love to have young disciple following her alone. Or two.”

His gaze has slid over to Edward again and, this time, Ed looks cautiously excited. Unlike Al, his interests had never truly been based in healing, but that did not mean that he was not going to try and soak up each and every lesson he could get.

All the better. It would not do for the Führer's son and husband to be bored out of their minds while on an official trip. Roy himself, of course, would only really be allowed to focus on business.

“But first,” Ling Yao says, “You must be tired. The deserts are not kind and you have a strenuous journey at your backs. We have prepared the most lavish chambers for you and hope you will be able to rest well. The politics can wait.”

It's easy for him to say. After all, Roy is the one who is indebted to him.

 

True to the emperor's words, the suite that has been prepared for the Führer's family is nothing but opulent, though Roy suspects that at some point it must have belonged to a favorite concubine.

The main room is mostly made up of a sitting area, with plush pillows, low tables and ottomans, and large windows lead out onto a balcony that oversees the city, dusky mountains in the distance. There is a bath, too, with a tub lowered into the floor and a selection of scented oils neatly presented on a little shelf. Alphonse has a room of his own while Ed and Roy's boasts a four-poster bed and paintings of cut fruit. Roy finds himself reminded of the tea set Madame gifted them for their wedding day and of the fact that cut fruit is usually meant to represent genitals. He wonders whether that is a coincidence or whether Ling Yao is trying to tell him something.

“What did you think of him?” Roy asks casually as he slips out of sweat-salted shirt.

“Hm?” Ed barely looks up from where he is wrestling Al out of his own clothes. They all need to wash up, but Al would obviously rather just get it over with and run off again.

“Ling Yao,” Roy points out mildly, “He certainly leaves an impression.”

Ed shrugs, pushing Al into the direction of the bathroom. The boy goes, unwilling but in a hurry to get it over with. What was it with teenage boys and their insistence on spreading their musk everywhere?

“He's weird,” Ed scrunches up his nose, “The kinda type that tries to get under your skin?”

“Did he succeed?”

“I can't figure out what his game is,” Ed frets, “There's... something about him that rubs me the wrong way but I don't think it's about power. I know them megalomaniac ones, and he ain't one.”

“True,” Roy muses. He has known for a long time that Ling Yao is a capable and merciful ruler. He has been like a gush of fresh wind in these dusty corridors. Xing, unchanging and everlasting, had progressed more in fifteen years than it had in the past two-hundred years. Roy can respect that. Roy cannot respect the blatant interest the emperor has for the Führer's husband.

Ed, of course, seems to have no clue. He had always been curiously oblivious to others' intentions towards him, unless they were planning to kill him.

Over the years, there had been many instances of people admiring Ed from a distance; infatuated students who tried to impress him during his lectures, bored housewives who cut out photographs of him from the newspaper, wealthy men and women at banquets which Edward scowled his way through, cadets and lieutenants and generals who would forever be ranked below Roy but who looked at Ed with variations of adoration, hope and downright hunger.

Naturally, there was the risky flavor of the unattainable that drew many people in. Ed had been known as Roy's lover for a long time and a number of people found the idea of seducing that same lover away from him quite tantalizing. Not to mention that many suspected, quite rightly, that Edward was quite a lay. 'The boy who tamed Mustang' he had been called more than once, followed by somewhat unimaginative innuendos about riding stallions and such.

There were many other reasons. Edward was brilliant and gifted, brave and beautiful, he smiled like a sun flare, did not skirt away from danger, and his kisses were downright wicked. Roy could not blame them for wanting him. It was just that he wanted him all to himself.

And now Ling Yao wanted him, too.

Perhaps he was just testing the waters, wanting to see what insults Roy would endure. Perhaps he, as the emperor, was unused to rejection and boundaries. Perhaps this was just the kind of man he was and Roy had missed it the last time they met. Perhaps they had just gotten off the wrong foot and the little misunderstanding would soon be cleared up.

Or perhaps the Emperor of Xing had been openly flirting and everyone in the throne room had known except for Ed.

“Be careful around him, though,” Roy notes idly, “He is not a man to be trifled with.”

At that, Ed gives him an odd look.

“That's unlike you,” he says slowly and Roy cocks an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“Usually, you warn me off of punching people or stepping on their toes,” Ed points out, “But you make it sound as though I should be careful for a different reason.”

“I haven't needed to tell you not to punch people in years,” Roy huffs. Ed would never be a true diplomat, but he was well aware of his status as the Führer's spouse. Time had not exactly mellowed him yet wizened him nonetheless.

“But Ling Yao is of a different caliber of anything we have ever dealt with,” he continues, “He is not simply spoiled or ambitious. He could make many things very dangerous very quickly. And now that he's got me on a short leash, I'd rather not take any chances.”

Ed lowers his head, hair falling into his face.

“I know this is my fault,” he begins but it's an old spiel and Roy does not need to hear it again.

“It is not,” he says gently, “It was my decision to call upon Xingese help and therefore this is my mess to sort out. Right now, the situation is quite favorably, all things considered, and – even if it weren't – I would never regret what I did.”

Ed blinks up at him, the gold of his eyes a little dulled with lingering guilt, but logically he too must know that it is pointless.

Two years ago, when he had suffered from a concussion and severe amnesia, when he had forgotten everything, from their first kiss to their family life to the entirety of their intertwined lives, Roy had decided to throw caution into the wind and beg the Xingese ambassador for help. Alkahestry had healed Ed's mind and returned his memories, but in exchange Roy had had to promise to return the favor at some point.

Essentially, this meant that he was Ling Yao's bitch. He had assumed that it would come at a cost for Amestris, but now that he had seen how the emperor had looked at Ed he is not so sure anymore.

The tense moment is interrupted when Alphonse tumbles out of the bathroom, a haphazard towel twisted around his hips, newly discovered modesty in the face of approaching adolescence.

“Clothes!” he crows at Ed, but already makes a beeline for their luggage himself.

“Yes yes,” Ed sighs and goes to help him find something.

For a moment, Roy watches them fondly, before going back to undressing himself, tossing his used clothes aside. He can smell the sweat and sand on him, his hair tacky around the temples, his lips dry and his skin too warm which means he probably has a sunburn.

True enough, when he finds his reflection in a tall mirror off to the side, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose are reddened. He frowns in dismay but that only pulls at his skin and also deepens the lines on his forehead.

He runs a hands through his hair and contemplates the man across from him.

Forty-three now and still the youngest Führer in the history of Amestris. Not getting any younger, though, just a bit wrinklier, a bit grayer. He's still reasonably fit, because he will not be one of those paper pusher who forget what battle tastes like, but he thinks he is going a little soft around the belly. He should work out more and keep himself from having his secretary sneak muffins from that quaint bakery on Delver Street past Hawkeye and into the office.

“Can I go now?” Al asks impatiently when he is sufficiently dressed.

“Ask your father,” Ed tells him as he always does when he can't be arsed to be a responsible parent.

“Father, can I go now?” Al repeats, annoyance creeping into his voice. He can be a little terror sometimes but Roy remembers how Edward had been at that age and it's nothing in comparison.

“Tell Breda to give you an escort,” Roy permits, “And don't wander off too far. Stay within the palace for now; there will be time to explore the city later.”

“Ye _sss_ ,” Al says, already sprinting toward the door, leaving his parents alone again. Alone and half-naked.

“How long do you plan on staring at yourself here?” Ed teases, standing up on his tiptoes so he can peer over Roy's shoulder and look into the mirror, too, “Vain much?”

“Just contemplating the transience of life,” Roy replies loftily, watching as Ed comes to stand by his side. Al may be a boy still and Roy soon an old man, but Ed was doubtlessly in his prime, not yet thirty and all hard planes and attractive angles.

“Transience, huh?” Ed says, “That's a nice word. You know any other like that?”

“Transcendence,” Roy says, “Transubstantiation.”

“Transcellular,” Ed adds, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose against Roy's collarbone, “Translucent.”

“Hmm,” Roy hums, “So many big words.”

“I can show you something else that's big,” Ed promises because he truly does not understand the subtle art of flirting, but then he presses one palm against Roy's groin and pulls Roy's hand against his own.

“Not that big yet,” Roy admits. He takes a while these day to catch up with Ed, but he also finds that he is more enduring. Probably not today, though. They had spent weeks in the desert with barely a moment to themselves. The hot water and Ed's clever hands would not allow him to last long.

But he sets his worries aside for now and lets Edward pull him into the direction of the bathroom, hoping for a nice long soak and an even nicer orgasm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly managed to make the chapter end on the word 'orgasm', even though there was no actual sex. I am stupidly proud of myself.


	2. High Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who is reading this and especially those who left reviews! I never would have thought that a series like this could keep it's momentum and your interest, but here we are, with many familiar icons in the comment section and new ones still showing up. I can only hope that I won't disappoint. :)

The streets of Taiyang are a never-ending maze, made even worse by the fact that Ed barely understands the language. He's got the basics down, but the messy vernacular that is spoken by the lower class is nothing but unintelligible gibberish to him. And he would never admit it, but he is kind of grateful that there is a pair of Xingese guards accompanying them whenever they leave the palace.

They are at the market now, him and Al, weaving their way through the throngs of people, stopping here and there to examine the merchandise in hopes of finding some nice souvenirs.

They've already picked out some tea for Pinako, an embroidered handkerchief for Gracia, and a golden brooch for Winry. Ed considers buying some expensive booze for Chris, but he has no idea what kind of alcohol is actually considered the good kind, so he should probably just ask for Roy's opinion later.

After all, there's still plenty of time left. They've only been in Taiyang for three days and barely seen any of it.

The citizens themselves are not paying them any attention. They are busy with their daily lives and, though Ed feels like he and Al stick out like sore thumbs, the capital is used to travelers and foreign merchants passing through.

With Roy it's an altogether different matter. He inherited his looks from his mother, both the Xingese features and the overall regal beauty. Edward had always appreciated this touch of mystery in Roy, just like he knew that Roy enjoyed Ed's unusual coloring.

There was a painting at Central headquarters, commissioned and paid for by the Armstrong family as a gift to the newly wedded Führer couple. On it, Roy and Edward stood side by side in Roy's. Roy in his black dress uniform, his gloved hand holding his state alchemist pocket watch; Edward in a dark gray suit, a book in in one hand, a pike in the other. At their backs was a window with the sky tinted a fiery red of dawn and on a small table beside them a candle holder with seven tiny flames.

Overall, the colors were muted, too somber for true kings, but Roy's polished buttons, the pocket watch, the pike's blade, the candle holder, the gleam in Edward's eyes and the light reflecting off his hair were done in gold and silver leaf.

Edward, despite how much he complained about its pretentiousness, quite liked the painting. He liked how it was the first thing people saw when they entered headquarters. He liked the symbolism that was so obvious when you knew what to look for. He liked how it was flashy in a way that suited both his and Roy's tastes.

And he liked how it was a secretive reminder of how Ed, too, had fought for this nation, how much he had lost, how much he had bled.

Alphonse was their son. But Amestris, for all intents and purposes, was their daughter.

Quietly and stealthily, they had brought peace for their country and few would ever truly understand the extent of it. The people did not know about Dante and the homunculi and all that might have happened.

This stint in Xing, Ed reminds himself, is nothing in comparison to the tribulations of his youth. Politics had never sat easy with him and he feels like he can only be of little help, but he is confident that Roy knows what he is doing.  
Right now, Roy, Breda and the rest of the team specifically put together for this mission are back at the imperial palace, working out the parameters of the new treatise between Xing and Amestris.

The first steps had already been made when they had started building the railroad tracks that connected Central Station to Taiyang via the so called Eastern Express. It had been an expensive enterprise but one that would pay for itself in the future, due to increased trade and travel. Once the tedious voyage through the desert could be done away with, relations between the two nations were bound to grow closer.

Some people back home had been suspicious. Not everyone was fond of the idea of having a half-Xingese Führer, though it was a really ridiculous notion. Roy was an Amestrian city boy through and through. He looked Xingese, certainly, but he did not speak the language, knew little of its culture except for what he deemed necessary in his diplomatic functions. He enjoyed the food, Ed knew, and had previously praised Xingese martial arts, but that was about it.

Ed himself had taught himself the basics of the language, enough to barter with shifty vendors and to read texts on alkahestry, but little more than that. Cretan had always seemed more relevant to him.

Al, on the other hand, seems to be nearly fluent, thanks to the tutor they had gotten him. After Ed's unfortunate bout of amnesia and almost miraculous recovery thanks to alkahestry, Al had been dead-set on learning the healing arts.

It made sense, all things considered. Granny Pinako and Winry's parents had been doctors. Paninya and Winry had just officially re-opened Rockbell Automail, and even Trisha had had a good handle on healing herbs and natural remedies and the like. Ed, as so often, took after his father, an alchemist through and through, more curiosity than sense sometimes.

It made sense that, even after leading a completely different life than the first time around, Al would still end up as the more caring, the more nurturing of the two.

It still hurts, sometimes. The boy has had a growth spurt lately and soon his voice would be changing into that of a young man. He would no longer be Ed's baby and most of the traces of Al's brother were gone as well, whittled away by the passing years.

He still feels clammy thinking about how Al had initially reacted to the revelation of the truth, of who he used to be. His words had been harsh but not undeserved. He had forgiven Ed, though, as he always did. And, Ed likes to think, their relationship had grown even stronger because of it. There were no more secrets between them and only a handful of regrets. One day, maybe, Ed would even be able to make peace with his past.

And, he thinks with a grin, watching as his son inspects some old books a vendor has laid out on his stand, Alphonse would carve his own path, stubborn like a little creek that grows into a torrent river.

By now, the sun is high in the sky, the shadows sharp around them, but it is not the shadows that catch Ed's attention.

Instead it is the young man and woman that suddenly walk up to him, their stances relaxed but purposeful. Ed tenses on instinct, but then notes how the guards do not seem alarmed at all. When he takes a closer look at the two strangers he understands why.

The man, clad in a saffron-yellow robe and his hair in a long ponytail, is no stranger at all, but the Emperor of Xing dressed like a common citizen. The woman, a few years younger, in silks of pastel pink and white, must have royalty in her bones, too, judging by the elegant tilt of her nose.

“Edward,” Ling Yao addresses him familiarly and Ed bristles. The only one who really calls him Edward outside of official functions is Roy. Otherwise, he's Ed or boss or Professor. As he and Ling barely know each other but are still supposed to make nice, it is perfectly appropriate for Ling to call him by his given name in order to show his goodwill.

But something about the way he says it does not sit well with Ed. Maybe it's just his mild accent, the way he very carefully enunciates the r, makes his roll off his tongue in a manner that is almost lilting. Maybe it's the curl of his lips or the knowing look his companion sends him. Maybe it's Ed just reading too much into it.

“Your Majesty,” he returns, giving the tiniest of bows.

“Young Alphonse,” Ling Yao greets him as well and Al preens a little, the books at his back abandoned.

“This is May Chang,” Ling explains, gesturing to the woman at his side. She inclines her head but makes no further obeisance, proof of Edward's suspicion that she, too, must be part of the royal family.

Ed thinks he can see some family resemblance in them but, with some chagrin, he admits that he has trouble telling the Xingese apart. The fact that their guide who had led them through the desert had cheerily informed them that all Westerns looked the same to him, made him feel a little better, though.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” she says, with girlish charm. She must have traveled extensively or even spent a significant time living abroad, because her Amestrian is flawless. Unlike Ed's rough Eastern dialect that sometimes shines through, she sounds like someone from the Western cities, with clear syllables and lofty vowels. It could either be because she actually lived there or because foreigners often tended to over-enunciate. Perhaps she just had a pushy tutor like Al's who insisted on learning High Xingese instead of the many variants found across the more rural areas.

“Likewise,” Ed says, offering her his hand as a test. She takes it without hesitation, her grip solid. Definitely lived abroad then. The Xingese, if they shook hands at all, favored a more gentle touch and generally avoided eye contact, but May Chang's are open and unyielding. Ling brought her here for a reason.

“Shouldn't you be back at the palace?” Ed asks him bluntly. Roy had said working on the contracts would take most of the day and then some.

“A well deserved break,” Ling says, taking it in stride, “His Excellency seemed famished and I needed some fresh air.”

Roy, the idiot, usually only took a light breakfast which meant that he was always ravenous by noon. And here his secretary could not just sneak him treats over paperwork.

“I hope I am not unduly interrupting your excursion,” Ling adds, a cursive glance at the bags in Ed's hand.

“Just shopping for souvenirs,” Ed waves him off, “There is much to see and Al has been saving his allowance specifically for this trip. It seems the money is burning a hole in his pocket.”

Predictably, Al sends him a withering glare but refrains from sticking his tongue out at him. They grow up so quickly, Ed thinks with a mental sigh.

“May I propose a cheaper pastime then,” Ling offers, “I admit I already had the idea when we first spoke but I only now managed to pry both May Chang and me away from our responsibilities.”

Ed remains silent, not wanting to prematurely agree to something. He's not quite suspicious per se, but he does not want to take any chances either.

“May Chang is a healer,” Ling explains, “And well versed in alkahestry.” He turns his smile on Alphonse, “I thought you might be interested in having her show you around.”

Al's are immediately grow to the size of saucers.

“Really?” he asks, looking from Ling to Ed to May Chang.

“It's important to start your education early,” she tells him, mock seriously but not condescendingly, “I became an apprentice when I was only six years old.”  
“Oh no,” Al seems worried and excited at the same time, “I have so much to catch up on.”

“Would you like to see my practice?” she asks, “Only if your father allows it, of course.”

And Al turns pleading eyes on Ed, the ones he usually reserved when begging for another cat.

“Off with you,” Ed sigh, ruffling a hand through Al's hair.

May Chang smiles and turns away, already leading the way, but waiting for Al to join her, a skip in his step and a barrage of questions already tumbling from his lips. Al had always been a good student and this would be no different.

Ling remains by Ed's side and, with a subtle sign towards the two guards, he dismisses them.

“No bodyguards needed?” Ed asks with a cocked eyebrow and Ling shakes his head.

“May Chang is an exceptional fighter, not only because of her alkahestry,” he says, “Alphonse will be safe in her care.”

Edward had primarily wondered whether the emperor did not require protection, but then he recalls how the darkness at Ling's back had sometimes seemed to move. Maybe all he needed was his shadow.

“Shall we,” Ling Yao says, beckoning down the street, and it is only then that Ed understands that May Chang had not just been meant as a favor to Al but as a distraction. Because now Ed was alone and Ling could demand his attention.  
For a moment, Ed contemplates just feigning exhaustion or even heat stroke, but then his stomach grumbles loudly.

“Let me treat you to lunch,” Ling Yao says, “Have you ever had fermented eggs?”

“No, but I've had food poisoning and it sounds like the same thing to me.”

The emperor laughs loudly.

“Not an adventurous eater?” he asks, “I'm afraid Xingese cuisine will not appeal to you then.”

“I've like it plenty,” Ed says, “At the meals here and in Amestris.”

“Ah, but those samples were adjusted to sensitive Western palates,” Ling notes, “You are picky eaters.”

“Is it true that you eat dogs?” Ed wants to know, just to be obnoxious.

Ling shrugs. “In Drachma, they eat horses. In Guttka, they don't eat cows. Some people only eat fish and some don't eat animals at all. Everything may seem strange, depending on your point of view.”

“True,” Ed admits reluctantly but his feet have already moved and then he is walking across the market at the emperor's side.

Ling looks completely different like this, devoid of pomp and regalia, just a young man taking a stroll across the market. His shoulders are deceptively relaxed, his smile serene. No one would expect him to be the Emperor of Xing. And indeed, even the people around them do not pay him any attention. It is difficult to tell whether they simply do not recognize him like this or whether they are used to seeing their ruler walk among them like a common men.

Edward finds himself hoping that it is the latter. Even after having had more interaction with Ling Yao during the past days, it is difficult to pinpoint the man and that makes him dangerous. Edward cannot afford to let his guard down around him, not when he knew so much about Roy and Amestris. One thoughtless word could well bring about a political disaster.

It's easy to forget, though. Because Ling talks differently, too, no pretense of grandeur or symbolical immortality, just a man his own age, who barters with vendors and then still pays double, who has Ed try rice cakes and dumplings and other more obscure stuff and laughs when Ed cannot help but pull faces at the unusual taste. He's good company, surprisingly, and soon enough they have circled back to the palace, making their way up the many stairs.

“It looks amazing,” Ed acknowledges both the beautiful architecture and the view he knows they will have from the top, “But it's terribly impractical.”

“But it makes it easier to hold off attacks,” Ling points out, though he is quietly huffing as well. From the way he moves, it is apparent that he must have some fighting experience, too, but most of his day is spent sitting on a throne, just like Ed is primarily sitting in his office, and climbing stairs is just no fun.

It's made worth it, though, when they finally reach the top and Roy and Breda are waiting for them.

“There you are,” Roy says in surprise. He must have been expecting Ling Yao to return from his break, but his words are directed at Edward.

“Hey,” Ed says, stepping closer. He has noticed that the Xingese are not big on public displays of affection, but he leans in to press a kiss to Roy's cheek anyway.

“Where is Alphonse?” Roy asks when he pulls away again.

“Traded him in for some crepes,” Ed explains, offering Roy his leftovers, “You want some?”

He laughs when he sees Roy's sour expression.

“Relax,” he says, twining his fingers through he braiding on Roy's uniform, “Ling gave him his personal alkahestry tutor and suddenly both me and the market were very boring in comparison.”

“How gracious of him,” Roy says quietly, but there is an odd tilt to his tone, and he is looking across Ed's shoulder and right at Ling.

“My sister was only too happy when I told her of Alphonse's interest,” Ling adds, “She is the greatest healer of her generation and she has been thinking of taking on an apprentice of her own. This will be a good lesson for her as well.”

“We should get back to work,” Roy abruptly changes the topic, “There is much to do yet.”

“Of course,” Ling agrees, “But please, let me drop by my rooms to freshen up a little. The midday sun is particularly unforgiving this month.”

“I think I'll go take a nap,” Ed says. He's not as used to traveling as he was during his youth and he finds the many new impressions have left him mentally exhausted.

“Let me accompany your to your chambers then,” Ling offers, already sidling up with him, “I hear you got lost yesterday.”

“It's not my fault all the hallways look the same,” Ed grumbles. “See you later,” he tells Roy, noting how his expression seems somewhat drawn.

“C'mon, chief,” he hears Breda says as he turns around, “Think of the treaty.”

The temperature shift when they enter the palace is pronounced enough that Ed quickly finds himself shivering, but he notices that something in Ling's attitude has changed as well. Maybe it is because they are back in the palace and he is now the emperor once more but Ed cannot help but think that it has something to do with the calculating looks Ling and Roy had been exchanging. He does not know what to make of it.

“I did not know May Chang was your sister,” Edward says, though even as he says it he recalls how Ling had mentioned it during their first encounter in the throne room.

“My half-sister,” Ling explains, “One of many. They are my father's children with his concubines from other clans as was tradition.”

Was tradition, he says meaningfully, and it was not escape Edward's notice.

“You have no children?” he asks, but he is really asking about the concubines. This, in turn, does not escape Ling.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I have done away with that non-sense. It only bred rivalry and bloodshed. My lovers are willing.”

“Or so you tell yourself,” Ed cannot help but quip. He had seen enough of the world to know that, when a powerful man told you to spread, most people did not have the luxury of saying no.

Ling, however, regards him with an amused twinkle in his eyes instead of looking offended.

“I've heard rumors about you,” he says, “The Führer President was your superior when you were still a child. Some might imply that he abused the power he held over you.”

Some might. Many had. Ed had heard every variation of the tune.

“Do I strike you as someone who's easily manipulated?” Ed asks, trying not to sound too terse. He wonders how their smoothly flowing conversation from before has now tipped into potentially hostile territory again.

“You strike me as someone who sometimes bites off more than he can chew.”

“I haven't quite choked on it yet.”

“How long have you loved him then?” Ling asks as though it were the most natural question in the world. Edward is not cowed.

“Twelve years,” he replies, steadfast, remembering himself on his seventeenth birthday, sitting on Gracia's dark stairs and slowly beginning to unravel the mess that Roy Mustang had left in his heart, “We've been together for eleven, married for five.”

Ling hums thoughtfully. He's still got his hand folded inside of his sleeves and his face is tilted back toward the ceiling in an almost careless manner, but Ed knows better than to be fooled by that facade.

“It's said that you forgot everything,” he points out, “And that Alkahestry made you remember.”

“Isn't there such a thing called patient confidentiality?” asks wryly, though he can feel nervousness churning in the pit of his belly.

This is what it was all about. Amestris' debt to Xing because Ed had to go and forget his life. And it seems Ling had no issue with openly displaying his ace.

“You were a skilled alchemist in your time,” Ling says instead of acknowledging Ed's comment.

“I still am,” Ed says, though he can feel himself getting more and more peeved. He's never been the best at verbal sparring and Ling's shallowly cutting remarks are setting him on edge.

“Yes, yes,” Ling Yao agrees though he does not sound actually dismissive, “But you were a state alchemist. The youngest state alchemist in the history of Amestris.”

“What can I say,” Ed shrugs because there is no way in hell he is going to talk about how he got there, “I was a precocious kid.”

“Hmm,” Ling Yao hums, all faux contemplation, “They called you Fullmetal, no?”

“Some still do,” Ed huffs. Humans were notorious for hanging on to staples of the past.

“And the Führer President, he controls the flame?”

“He does,” Ed agrees, quiet pride and always that shy sliver of arousal because, even as a young teenager, he had been able to tell that Roy's specific brand of alchemy was hot, both literally and figuratively.

“Ah,” Ling Yao says and smiles, “But the sun has always belonged to the Heavens.”

There's that look on his again, the one Ed can't quite make sense of. He's not good with any of this layered bullshit, when it's people saying one thing but meaning another. It's bad enough when it's happening in politics, but Ed can't shake the feeling that Ling Yao is aiming for a personal level.

He does not like it. His relationship with Roy had only ever worked out because there was Mustang the schemer, the commander, the politician on the one side, and Roy the dork, the procrastinator, the family man on the other. Roy had never carried his two-faced self into the house and certainly not into their bed. Once they had been living together with Al between them, Roy had been nothing but honest and upfront with Ed, and Ed had always appreciated that quality in him.

Maybe Ling Yao is the same. Maybe he has close friends who know the real him. But Edward is not one of those friends and therefore all he gets is the frustratingly smooth facade the emperor offers him.

They have reached Edward's suite now, coming to a halt in front of the door. It would be a natural point to end it here but, when Edward fail to react to his random observation, Ling does not seems deterred. Rather, encouraged even, as though Ed's silence were a kind of victory. Maybe it is. All Ed knows it that he prefers to keep his mouth shut for now, lest he say anything incriminating.

“I would like to prepare traditional Xingese robes for you to wear at the feast tomorrow,” Ling tells him instead, “For Alphonse as well. Would you allow me?”

Edward, which both of them very well know, cannot just smack down a polite request like that.

“Of course,” he says instead, “Al will be thrilled. He loves playing dress-up.”

It's an easy dismissal. Put the focus on Alphonse, present Ling Yao's gift as worth as nothing but child's play, still accept the present. Edward is stupidly proud of himself.

And really, there's a glint in Ling's eyes, like he has acknowledged that Edward has picked up the glove that has been thrown down.

Now it was only a matter of time to see who would win this duel. And whether it would remain a friendly game.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy writing this politically aware Edward entirely too much. To bad next chapter will become even more trying for him.


	3. Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, thank you so much for the wonderful feedback! I greedily read every comment and obsess over them like a dragon with his hoard. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that, as of this chapter, I have officially written 500 consequtive pages in this 'verse, and it is all thanks to you and your continuous support. Now, let's see whether I got another 100 in me. :)

The feast the next day does not only celebrate the finalization of the contract between Xing and Amestris and both Emperor and Führer putting their signatures underneath it; it is also a commemoration of Ling's inauguration.

Ed almost fools himself into believing that this meant he could neatly fade into the background, but of course he is still supposed to play his role in representing his country. And this time, he might actually have to do more than just primly sitting around and making nice with various officials.

This becomes especially obvious when Ling makes good of his promise – or, perhaps, his threat – and has traditional Xingese garments delivered to their suite by two handmaidens.

The robes are both more gorgeous and more stuffy that Ed could have anticipated. He finds himself clad in what must be several layers of silk and he can barely move in them, his back rigid and his arms angled in such way that he won't stumble over the sleeves. One of the girls that had helped him dress has also stayed behind to do his hair, intricate braids twisting away from his temples.

She makes small appreciative noises about how beautiful his hair is, happily chatting away with Alphonse despite the lingering language barrier.

Al, as expected, is excited about wearing robes. His own are a vivid spring green that brings out his eyes and the rosy blush of his cheeks. He's also only wearing two layers instead of Ed's who-knows-how-many, so he can still actually breathe and move around and shit.

Finally, Roy comes to join them as well.

He stops in the doorway, when he catches sight of Ed, and for a moment the two of them just look at each other across the room.

The handmaiden whispers something into Ed's ear, a giggle caught between the words. Ed's Xingese is shitty, but he thinks he gets the gist of it, something about mirages and starving men in the desert.

Not a mirage, Ed thinks. An oasis.

Roy has crossed the room by then, the girl politely backing away and picking up her conversation with Al again.

“You look stunning,” Roy tells Ed in a quiet voice. His eyes, as so often, are calm and warm at the same time. Not an outright flame, but a handful of embers.

Edward snorts, cutting his gaze away. Years and years have not gotten him used to Roy's easy manner of lavishing compliments at him. “You always say that.”

“Because it is always true.” Roy reaches out to run his fingertips across the delicate embroidery that spills down Ed's shoulder. “But today more so than usual. It reminds me of when you were still a boy.”

It takes Edward a moment to understand why, but the robes are crimson and the sash winding around his waist golden, and maybe the colors are somewhat reminiscent of his old coat.

“I'm not a boy,” Ed mutters. His finger are itching to pluck at his braids because he is not a girl either.

“I know,” Roy says in a tone that implies just how intimately he knows, “I wouldn't want you to be.”

He looks quite ready to strip Edward and show him just how happy he is about it, too, but Ed neatly twists away.

“Not now,” he warns, “Ling expects me to get all dressed up. I don't want to go through all this trouble all over again.”

“Ah,” Roy says and his smile turns a little stale, “Of course. I should get ready as well. The feast will begin soon.”

Ed opens his mouth, wondering whether he should say something else, but Roy is already moving toward the bedroom.

 

The feast, as everything in the imperial palace, is unnecessarily big and colorful.

They all sit gathered around low tables that are laden with golden plates and a mixture of Xingese and Amestrian cuisine. They serve rice wine, but Ed does not indulge, just keeps sipping his water. At least he enjoys the proper Xingese food Ling had introduced him to and the traditional music that plays in the background, like flutes and zithers, but not quite. Next to him, Al is still prattling on about May Chang and how amazing her alkahestry is.

Ed listens, admittedly, rather half-heartedly. Instead, most of his focus is on Roy who is avidly talking with Breda and one of Ling's older brothers. There is nothing wrong with it, of course, especially since they are merely discussing the trade of certain spices, but Ed finds himself wary of the pretty girls with the painted faces who keep swarming around Roy like silkmoths around a mulberry tree, pouring him drinks and offering him treats.

Roy, with his natural grace and aristocratic features, his graying hair slicked back, is the most handsome man in the whole palace.

He is in his dress uniform which Ed has had a weakness for even since before their wedding, and he cuts a sharp figure in the anthracite wool, the well tailored jacket with its high collar and golden buttons.

He has been working out more, too, these past few days. This morning, Edward had woken up to him already doing sit-ups and push-ups on the floor, his naked upperbody glistening with sweat.

Edward had heard often enough that people grew bored in their marriages, that they tired of sex and of each other, but he could never understand that. Just seeing Roy like this had lit a subtle flame in his loins, though he had merely rolled over onto his stomach to watch while Roy finished up.

At the end of this year, Roy would be up for re-election after his first four-year term. The accompanying political campaigns had already begun, the media flurry and the gauging of the other candidates.

Claus Messerschmitt was running again and he had the support of many who did not favor Roy's more liberal approaches, but he was already in his early sixties which cost him some of his appeal.

Ephraim Fairchild had accepted his original defeat, comfortable in his role as general, especially since his wife Evelyn was more than capable of reigning the social circles of the elite from her position. Not that Ed minded. He and Evelyn had reached an accord years ago; he had happily conceded the floor to her and she had promised to have his back when people doubted his place by Roy's side. It was a sly kind of camaraderie that Ed had grown to appreciate.

There were a few other upstarts, those hungry for power, those who wanted the old system back, and those who were idealistic enough to think that they could do better than Roy. What they did not understand was that Roy was already doing the best that was possible.

When Ed had been young, he had not understood either. He could raze cities and create mountains with a mere hand clap. Solutions, to most problems, had to be immediate. What he needed was direct action and instant gratification. What little patience he had, the one that focused on studying and training, was fueled by his impatience for the things he wanted to achieve.

Working under Roy had taught him better. Ed knew he had been naive in many things, had criticized Roy and his team for idly sitting back, sitting behind their desks and shuffling papers. But politics were not a fistfight. Politics were chess, only that all the pieces were gray and you still had to figure out which side you stood on. And sometime you had to let others make the first move.

A selfish part of Ed wishes that Roy would finally retire, that he could go back to just being a general and take up some more mediocre duties. Less risk of assassinations and more time spent at home, certainly.

But you didn't change a nation in just four years, and Roy still had some improvements planned for Amestris. So, once more, Ed would smile for the cameras, Ed would wear the fancy clothes, Ed would not cause scenes where he thought entire three-act Cretan dramas wouldn't be out of place.

“You seem to be lost in thought,” a voice says next to him and when he looks over, Ling is sitting where Al had been.

Ed blinks and then looks along the table, only to find Alphonse sitting with May Chang and another half-sister, peevishly glaring back at Ed. So maybe Al had noticed that Ed wasn't quite paying attention. Oh well. He'd get over himself soon enough and tell the whole thing all over again.

“I was just,” Ed says, with a vague gesture, “Thinking about politics.”

“You shouldn't,” Ling tells him, with a teasing glance at Ed's forehead, “The frown does not suit you.”  
Ed only frowns harder and Ling smiles, amused.

“The robes, however,” he says, leaning in closer, “Suit you extraordinarily well.”

“You have good taste,” Ed allows. The handmaidens had told him that Ling had personally picked the garments which was supposedly a very great honor.

“I do,” Ling agrees slyly and, when his gaze moves along Ed's body, Ed cannot shake the feeling that this is not about the clothes.

Suddenly feeling rather warm, Ed makes a clumsy grab for his cup and takes a large gulp of water. He swallows and it hurts his throat a little but, to his mortification, he can tell that his cheeks must be red.

“Please excuse me,” he says, standing abruptly, “I need... bathroom.”

He marches away, careful not to stumble over the overlong robes, leaving the ruckus of the feast at his back, out into the corridor and quietly ducking into one of the alcoves. There is a huge painted vase that he has to navigate around, but he manages to press his forehead against the wall, hoping the smooth stone will cool him down more quickly.

Forcing a calm breath out of his lungs, Ed tries to order his thoughts, just like he would before considering the unexpected outcome of an alchemical experiment.

First question: Was Ling Yao hitting on him?

Replaying their previous interactions – their first meeting, their walk across the market, their mix between easy conversation and piqued bickering – it was not as ridiculous as Ed would still have thought five minutes ago.

Second question: Did Ling Yao have a death wish?

Ed was married to the political leader of another nation, a nation that Xing had just signed a treaty with. This was an insult at best, a cause for an altercation at worst. Aerugo and Creta had literally gone to war about something like this, and Ling must have known that he was overstepping his boundaries.

Third question: What exactly did Ling Yao want?

Ed, in some way, apparently. Maybe he just wanted the thrill, the idea. Maybe this was merely a little harmless game in his eyes. Maybe Ed was overreacting. Or maybe the Xingese emperor had really just shamelessly undressed him with his eyes.

“You are frowning again.”

The voice is so quiet it does not echo through the hallway, but it is close enough that Ed freezes up.

“My face is literally pressed up again a wall,” he growls, no longer in the mood to feign politeness, “You cannot see whether I'm frowning.”

“It's more of a metaphysical frown,” Ling claims, “A spiritual one.”

Steeling his features, Ed pushes himself away from the wall and turns around again. Ling, with his stupid crown and his even stupider smirk, is watching him.

“I don't think that's what alkahestry is about,” Ed points out tersely.

“We have knowledge beyond alkahestry,” Ling tells him, seeming to feel quite comfy with his enigmatic bullshit, “We practice the reading of a person's essence, it's ephemeral core. I believe the closest translation you might be familiar with is the Cretan concept of _aura_.”

Ling has taken just two steps closer but they have carried him directly into Ed's personal space.

Aura, Ed's furiously working mind provides, Breeze, air.

Ling Yao's warm breath is on his face and Ed is struck with the unequivocal realization that he has never even kissed anyone but Roy and that he _does not want that to change._

“What's your deal?” he snarls, slapping Ling's lifted hand. He wants to twist away, wants to get away, but Ling is effectively caging him in. Ed could punch him, of course, but not without causing a scandal. Though Ling seems quite intent on causing one himself.

“I find one can learn a lot about a man by looking at whom he takes as his lover,” he says, seeming utterly unperturbed. His gaze does not waver, boring directly into Ed's unflinching eyes, as though all of this was merely a means of judging Roy's character.

“You don't need to look that closely,” Ed snaps.

“And yet I find myself intrigued.” Ling leans back, just a little, as though to get the bigger picture, “You have a presence like few else.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You carry a darkness in you,” Ling explains, his voice placid, “A very profound heavy darkness. Still, you never let it overpower you. Much more meaningful than easy and unadulterated innocence, don't you agree?”

Ed's breath hitches. People do not say shit like this by making a stab in the dark. Aura, Ling had said and claimed that he could read them. Was he able to see scarred seams were Ed's soul had repeatedly been ripped apart and sewn back together? Could he tell that he had been irrevocably tainted by the Truth? Did he know that Ed had committed an unforgivable crime that still demanded the death sentence?

“I had a suspicion when I first saw you together,” Ling continues as though oblivious to Edward's inner breakdown, “But May Chang confirmed it. Alphonse is not your son, is he? He is your brother.”

Since Al's transmutation into a baby, there had been only two people who had been told about his former identity: Madame Christmas, and Al himself. No one had ever even suspected anything else. The paperwork Roy's team had faked regarding Al's origin had been bulletproof. But Ling, it seemed, did not need paperwork. Just two keen eyes and a reason to look a little more closely than most.

“So what?” Ed growls, helplessly clenching his fists by his sides, “He's my little brother, but I raised him. He considers Roy and me his fathers.”

But Ling only smiles, “I hear your mother died when you were very young.”

“Half-brother,” Ed corrects, his tone scathing, “You should be familiar with those. My father knocked up some poor girl and then fucked off again, just like he did with my mom. I decided to take responsibility.”

“Even if it weren't for your aura,” Ling says, “It is still quite obvious that you are lying right now. It is not overly convincing; you should stick to alchemy.” His head tilts to the side before he adds, “Though I reckon that is what brought this upon you in the first place.”

Edward cannot breathe. There is not air and he cannot breathe, he is going to suffocate, and Ling Yao is just going to watch him die. But Ed is familiar with death and that thought, ironically, grounds him.

“Are you blackmailing me?” he asks, barely recognizing his own voice. His throat feels very tight.

“No,” Ling shakes his head, barely noticeable. “I will not lie to you any longer, Edward. I have tried to be subtle, but it seems that approach does not work with you.”

Ed's eyes narrow, both at the implied insult and the incoming threat he expects.

“I am quite taken with you. Entirely too much, perhaps. When the Führer President first sang your praises, I believed it all to be gross exaggerations. Yet now...”

His gaze slithers along Ed's body, just like it had done before. So maybe Ed's worries in that regard had not been entirely unfounded. Now they solidified themselves, now they grew and took shape and turned out even worse than predicted.

“I'm not whoring myself out, if that's what you're hoping for,” Ed says brashly because outright objection might just work best.

“Oh no, that would rather take the fun out of that,” Ling waves him off as though the mere idea were ludicrous, “I told you my lovers are willing. I enjoy true seduction, not force and coercion.”

“Well, you are barking up the wrong tree. I ain't interested.”

“I know,” Ling smiles, “I knew the moment you and his Excellency first came before my throne. You are quite inseparable. And not the type to share, I believe.”

Ed cringes at the mental image, of himself in bed with Ling Yao, even if Roy were there with them.

“Damn right,” he says.

“You cannot blame me for trying.”

“Of course I fucking can. I am married, okay, and that means something to me. Not to mention that something like this might well start a war.”

“Maybe your refusal will.”

Ed blanches. “You said you would not use blackmail.”

“I won't,” Ling nods. “I merely enjoy watching you squirm. A testament to your husband's taste, really. Most men would have chosen a spouse that is less likely to set things on fire.”

“Fire is Roy's thing,” Ed tells him, wistfully thinking of his own once customary pike, “I'm metal.”

“Like a finely honed blade?”

“Like the molten core that keeps this fucking planet turning.”

“See,” Ling smirks, “Fire after all.”

Finally, he takes a step back and Ed can breathe freely again, though he does it surreptitiously, shallow breaths sucked into his lungs.

“I would care for a demonstration,” Ling says, seemingly non-sequitur.

“What?”

“I do not make my offers idly. When his Excellency was first dealt as a candidate for the election, I took great pains to look into his past and private life. And therefore into yours as well. You were a soldier and a state alchemist.”

“So what?”

“I know a thing or two about fighting myself,” Ling reveals, “And I trust that you have not grown rusty since your retirement.”

Ed's eyebrows creep up into his hairline, “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“A sparring match,” Ling corrects, “Among friends.”

“What the-,” Ed stumbles both over his own words and over the implication that Ling would think them friends after all this, “ _Now?_ ”

“What better time than in front of an eager audience,” Ling says, one hand motioning toward the feast they had left behind, “I like to leave an impression.”

“Roy told me it's bad taste to fight at banquets,” Ed grumbles because Roy had, in fact, told him so many times.

“It's a bit of young tradition around here,” Ling laughs, “On the anniversary of my coronation, I will find a reason to demonstrate my... martial prowess, so to speak.”

“Vain much?” Ed scoffs.

“It has little to do with personal vanity and more with... ensuring certain parties' loyalty.”

“Can you please, for once, not talk in wannabe riddles?”

Ling's grin is back to being entirely too foxy for a human face. “You are familiar with how exactly I inherited the crown?”

Ed gives a curt nod. For hundreds of years, the emperor had chosen his concubines from daughters of each major clan and from each union a child was meant to be born. These children then had to prove themselves worthy of becoming the ruler. As Ling had said before, this primarily led to rivalry and bloodshed, and he himself had to undergo quite a number of trials to establish himself as the heir.

“Many are not happy with my decision to abolish the concubinage,” Ling explains, “They believe I only seek to found a direct bloodline for the Yao clan. They throw their daughters at me in hopes of at least getting a bastard out of me.” He gives a little thoughtful pause. “I always admired the Führer-President. For raising a child that was not his.”

“Amestris is not a monarchy,” Ed grouches, still feeling too touchy to talk about AL and Roy and their whole convoluted familial relations, “Blood does not matter.”

Not to mention that Al was not exactly aiming to become a politician either.

“Blood always matters,” Ling knows, “In one way other the other.”

“And they are out for yours?” Ed wonders, thinking of Ling's spice-enthusiastic brother and the girl by May Chang's side who couldn't have been all that much older than Al.

Ling hums. “Some of them, certainly. Many of my half-siblings will go on to become heads of their clans and they will want their own descendants to get a chance at ruling.”

Ed thinks of his family, ripped apart and still closely knit, of Hohenheim's abandonment and subsequent return, of Al's quiet anger and impossible forgiveness, of Winry's quick temper and gentle hands. All of Ed's family and friends had been flawed and human and wonderful in their very own ways. They had always wanted what was best for Ed, even if he didn't quite know it himself at that point.

And here was Ling Yao, raised in a world that expected him to be the best, only that the best quite possibly meant killing his forty-nine half-siblings, brothers and sisters that were connected to him by blood and fate and little else. All things considered, Ed thinks he might understand him a little better now.

But, despite it all, Ling had managed to ascend the throne without doing any of that, and he had led Xing into a new promising era, much like Roy had done, and Ed could respect that.

“So this 'sparring match',” he says, cocking an eyebrow, “Would merely be a roundabout intimidation tactic?”

“After a fashion,” Ling muses idly but then his smirk turns sharp, “It is also a means of seeing you breathless and sweaty at my hands. One that does not involve adultery, at least.”

And just like that Ed knows that he has to do this, that he has to fight Ling and wrestle him down in front of everyone, not just for the sake of his own pride, but as a sacrificial offering to Roy.

“Game on,” he says and bares his teeth.

 

When they return to the hall, Ling merely has to lift a hand and a hush falls over the crowd.

Ed's eyes seek out Roy and he finds him where he left him seated at the table with Breda, but there is that complicated look on his face, the one that is not quite a frown, but only because he is in his politician's role and mustn't give away any of his thoughts. He is also not looking at Ed, instead intently watching as Ling motions for the musicians to play a different tune.

Soon, heavy steady drum beats echo off the tall walls, quick finger pluck at the strings of the zithers, and Ed's heart seems to stumble in excitement, following the rhythm.

Ling divests himself off his crown, properly handing it over to one of the courtiers who bows and steps away. Other than that, however, Ling keeps the rest of his robes on which means Ed has to do the same, a definite disadvantage when fighting, but he tightly rolls up his sleeves and hope they won't bother him too much.

Ling makes no announcement to the hall at large, does not disclose his intentions. Perhaps his court really is used to these displays. Perhaps he just enjoys being dramatic.

“Are there any rules?” Ed asks as they stand facing each other, a few meters separating them.

“Just two,” Ling says, “No weapons and no alchemy.”

Ed frowns. He has assumed that Ling wanted to see his alchemy in particular. But then again, it probably wasn't fair to use any, considering that Ling himself was no alchemist.

“I want to beat you as you are,” Ling adds as an explanation and Ed flashes his teeth. He's going to enjoy smashing him into the ground with his bare fists.

“What about dirty tricks?” he asks, watching as a smirk conquers Ling's face.

“Those are welcome,” the emperor says and then gives the mockery of a bow, “Shall we begin?”

Ed cracks his knuckles.

They both make the first move. And then they clash.

Ling is agile, skillfully evades Ed's automail fist and then, when Ed throws a punch with his left hand, he simply catches it between his own fingers. They strain against each other for a moment, and then Ed swings at him with his right, Ling ducks, skits out of range of another punch, lets Ed come at him again.

They dance around like this for a while, neither gaining the upper hand, neither landing a proper hit, as they are evenly matched, both in speed and agility. At first, Ed thinks he has the advantage in strength due to his automail, but Ling appears to have better foresight. He seems to be able to predict Ed's move before Ed has even decided up them, and Ed wonders whether that, too, has to do with reading auras.

He grits his teeth. The unique fighting style Izumi had taught him had incorporated Xingese martial arts, so he is not overly thrown by seeing them here, but Ling is doubtlessly a master of the discipline. He minimizes his movements and works with his body weight, saving precious energy.

Edward, shorter than most, especially when he had still been a kid, had always favored a similar approach, except for when his temper got the better of him. Then he merely bundled all his strength into his attacks and barraged his way through the fight, hoping that he'd land at least one hit and momentarily stun his opponent.

Under normal circumstances, Ed would long since have resorted to alchemy, but that is not possible now. And there is also the fact that, while people had generally underestimated the Fullmetal Alchemist when they came face to face with him, Ling was making no such mistake. He knew exactly what he had gotten himself into, and he seemed to be enjoying it entirely too much if his grin was anything to go by.

The thought has barely crossed Ed's mind when he realizes that the same holds true for himself. It had been years since he had fought like this, just his fists and the aching breath in his lungs, a willing opponent and no threat of death. He used to be able to do this for hours, ending up sweat-soaked and utterly blissed out, no matter whether he won or lost. He had no mind for Ling's little game that were played with sharp tongue and whittling words, but this kind of fighting he understood. This kind of fighting made sense.

Ling charges towards him and Ed does a backflip, his body arching through the air and landing on top of one of the tables. The people seated there screech and scurry away, but Ed is already grabbing a bowl of thick, spicy sauce and dumping is right in the emperor's face.

Ling hisses, quickly wipes a sleeve over his eyes, but not in time to avoid Ed when he throws himself at him. They tumble backwards but, before Ed can pin him down, Ling knees him in the gut and then kicks him off, sending him flying. Ed catches the brunt of the fall, rolls over his shoulder, almost trips over his trailing robes, comes to a stand and quickly lifts his automail arm to deflect the golden platter Ling has flung at him.

Ling throws an apple next and this one Ed simply catches, clenches his fist, mush squirting out between his fingers.

That's what I'd do to your balls, it what he would like to say, but it probably wouldn't be appreciated. Neither by the Amestrian entourage who were very concerned with keeping face, nor by the Xingese who still relied on Ling to eventually father an heir to the throne.

They come at each other again and Ed wishes he could just tear the stupid robes off because they keep him from sending proper kicks at Ling's face. They grapple, stare each other down.

Ling's eyes are dark and shiny like a starry night, mysterious but very much alive, his face once more too close to Edwards.

“In another life,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “We could have had more than just this.”

Ed lets out an aggravated shout and throws him over his shoulder, flinging himself around to follow, at the same time clapping his hands to deliver the finishing blow. Ling, once more having landed by the tables, has grabbed a long knife, raising it in preparation for a counter attack and-

They both still, blink, comprehend.

Stalemate. They had both broken the rules at the same time, which disqualified them from the fight. And just like that, they had both lost.

Ling lowers his blade, stares at it in wonder. Then he laughs, a careless sound that has an answering grin tugging at the corner of Ed's mouth.

“Ceasefire?” he offers, letting his own hands fall to his sides.

Ling's chest lifts and falls when he exhales again.

“No,” he says, his voice amicable, “Truce.”

And now, somehow, Ed can accept it.

 

They sit down and continue their meal as thought nothing had happened, neither the sparring match nor the confrontation in the hallways. Servants come to clean up the mess they made, Ling is given a warm towel to clean his face, Ed picks picks of apple out of his automail joints, and things continue as before. Well. Almost.

Because Ed can respect a capable fighter and Ling himself seems to have accepted his own defeat on a different level. His flirtatious smiles have turned friendly, though the foxy edge still remains. Ed is no longer a conquest to be made but a brother-in-arms, and soon enough they are regaling each other with stories of former fights. And many fights they have had, both of them spending their adolescence traveling extensively and getting into all sorts of trouble.

Al joints them eventually, contently burying into Ed's side and asking the occasional question. He has known about his previous life for a while now, but the two of them still tiptoe around the reality of it. Ed gives out information about their adventures sparingly, and Al rarely wants to know much about it, preferring to treat the tales as exaggerations and make-belief instead of as something that he had truly lived through.

It reads like an adventure novel, Ed can admit that much. The Elric brothers leaving their sleepy little village to explore the world, battling monsters and finding treasures along the way. Or maybe a fairy tale, he amends, considering his very own brand of happily ever after.

After a while, Al's questions putter off and Ed and Ling run out of breath, and then the silence is only interrupted by Al's little snores.

“I should get him to bed,” Ed yawns, maneuvering Al around so he can lift him up in his arms. Al, as always, sleeps on like a rock.

“Of course,” Ling agrees, though he still looks more awake than he has any right to be after an evening like this, “And there comes your esteemed husband already.”

And indeed, when Ed looks up, Roy is standing above them.

“Bed,” Ed says, tiredly smiling up at him and getting to his feet. Al is heavy in his arms, almost too big now to be carried around, though Ed would not admit that anytime soon.

“It's been a long day,” Roy agrees. His voice is subdued and Ed thinks that he must be rather exhausted, too, to let is show like this.

“Then let's go,” Ed says, nudging him with his shoulder, already moving towards the hallway, “Night, Ling.”

“Sleep well, Edward,” Ling answers and then, more deliberately, he adds, “Your Excellency.”

“Your Highness,” Roy returns and then he is already following Edward.

Their steps are unnaturally loud in the corridor or maybe they just sound like it in Edward's tired ears. When they reach their suite, he is relieved.

“I'll get him tucked in,” he tells Roy and then carries Al off into his separate bedroom.

It takes a while to get the kid out of the robes without waking him but then he pulls the covers up around him and presses a goodnight kiss to his forehead, just watching him for a moment.

Then he sighs and returns to his and Roy's room, where Roy is already sitting on the bed, having taken off his socks and boots.

Roy's dark gaze darts up and pins Edward into place.

“Come here,” he beckons, extending his hand, and that request is stronger than even the spell of his eyes.

Ed comes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how research just works wonderfully sometimes? So I wanted to write 'girls with painted faces swarming around Roy like silkmoths around-” Around what exactly? Light? What do silkmoths eat? Ah, mulberries. But what does the mulberry tree represent? 'Calculated patience, expediency, and wisdom.' In Chinese mythology they are also home of the three-legged sun bird.  
> Roy is a fucking mulberry tree alright. 
> 
> Next chapter: Porn


	4. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy has always had a hedonistic streak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a precursor, let me just say: This was not the sex scene I was expecting to write. My notes simply said “slow seduction, smut on lavish sheets”. Instead, Roy totally went into beastmode. But I have to agree with Ed. I kinda like it.
> 
> Also, to save you the trouble of having to research my metaphors, here are some bits about Chinese symbolism that I integrated here: honey = blissful marriage; vinegar = jealousy; fox = cunning, sensuality, seduction; cat = known for being able to see things others can't; lion = protection, particularly of the state; clouds and rain = sexual union; rain in particular symbolizes fertility, conception and sperm
> 
> By the way, kudos to Arakawa, because in Brotherhood Ling is dressed in yellow which is the color of the emperor. Seriously, I dig stuff like that.

“Come here,” Roy says and Edward comes not like an obedient dog, not like a chastised child, but as the sun comes to the East every morning because that is how things are meant to be, because anything else would defy the laws of nature.

Their hands tangle and Roy spreads his legs a little where he sitting on the edge of the bed so Edward can step between them.

Ed's face is open and guileless, tinged with tiredness and painted with trust. There is nothing in his gaze that hints at guilt and Roy knows he does not need to dig any deeper. He had had half a mind of asking Ed what exactly had happened between him and Ling that it would demand a speedy yet spectacular resolution in form of hand-to-hand combat, but now the words seem obsolete.

Watching the match had reminded him of the one all-out match he had had with Ed during their respective evaluations, Flame versus Fullmetal, summoning fire and tearing the earth apart. Back then Ed had endlessly gloated over his victory until, years down the road, he had asked Roy why he had frozen up and given him the upper hand at the end, and Roy had quietly admitted to memories from Ishval stealing the breath from his lungs, to seeing not Ed but a red-eyed boy his age, a boy who would never grow past that age because Roy had turned him into nothing but a scorch mark on the ceiling of a decrepit building in a pointless war. Edward had never gloated again.

This was not that, however. Ling and Ed had sparred for what seemed like the fun of it. They had danced their way around each other, two men in the prime of their lives, fighting with friendly fists instead of weapons, and then they had both lost in laughter.

They had spent the rest of the evening sitting together, Al with them, and Roy had felt a spike of something inside of him, something unpleasant, like catching on the thorn of a rose when you were so used to only ever smelling its sweetness. Now, though, he finds himself reevaluating that first impression.

Because Ling's behavior toward Ed had changed. No longer were there coy glances and too familiar smiles, replaced by an easy sense of camaraderie, and Ed in turn had opened up as well. It made sense, in a way. Edward always needed to remind people of their place before he himself admitted that maybe their place was close to his heart.

So Roy does not ask what they talked about, not when he can made an educated guess on the matter. Ling had extended an offer, Ed had refused and then he had demonstrated that he could hold his own. Now Roy needed to prove that his loyalty was well earned and he does not want their love making to be driven by petty jealousy. They were honey, not vinegar.

After the oppressive heat of the previous days, the skies outside finally break. Heavy clouds had gathered throughout the evening and now the first drops of rain were falling, a tentative melody among the silence. In the red and orange glow of the lanterns on the wall, Roy appraises the beauty in front of him.

One of the many things that he never ceased to enjoy over the course of their relationship is the way Edward is so responsive to seduction. Ed does not need it, not at all, is always too impatient, too hungry to want to spend much time on foreplay. Edward might wish to bang the drums, but Roy is the conductor. While he understands the appeal of instant gratification, he much prefers drawing things out, making Edward thrum under him like the finely tuned strings of a violin, so taut they might snap but instead singing with every touch. So Roy likes to take things slow.

The Xingese robes that Ed had been decked out in for the banquet had been driving Roy mad all evening. The look had been reminiscent of Ed as a teenager, red silk with a golden sash and embroidered slippers, automail glinting whenever the wide sleeves slipped to expose his wrists in an almost tantalizing manner, while the braids in his hair gave a feminine touch to his angular features. He was stunning and Roy would destroy every reminder of the strangers' touches of him.

He knows servants must have helped Edward get dressed; but he also knows that all of this had happened at Ling Yao's behest. Ling Yao had wanted to see Edward dressed in red silk. The polite gesture could easily be constructed as the Emperor parading around the Führer's husband like a Xingese concubine.

And Roy had said nothing because, at least for the duration of his stay here, he was to be Ling's bitch. But this was one thing that Roy could do to prove that he had not been completely emasculated.

At the feast, Ling had said something that made Ed blush almost as red as the silk. But, Roy had told himself, even as he watched Edward leave the hall only to be followed by Ling, there was nothing to worry about. Ling Yao was a cat. Edward was a lion. The young emperor did not truly know Ed, did not understand that he did not need to be dressed in rich fabrics to highlight his worth.

So, yes, the silk suits him, but it is not of him .Ed has always been leather and automail, skin and scars and hungry lips for Roy.

So Roy undoes the sash, pushes the robes of his mismatched shoulders, making Ed sigh with relief at the new-found liberty. The desert sun had painted bronze freckles across his golden skin, and Roy kisses every single one. He picks at the small braids, too, until they come undone, leaving soft waves at Ed's temples.

Between their jobs and raising Al, they generally have little time to spend like this, to truly take their time with each other. More often than not, they are either too exhausted or prefer just talking to each other. Roy doesn't think he'll ever tire of listening to Ed talk about alchemy. As the Führer, he has pretty much dropped all of his personal research and so he relies on Ed to update him on new theories, to pick apart journal entries and spitball ideas for harebrained experiments.

But sex. Sex is a luxury, an expensive whiskey. You can chase down the cheap stuff and still enjoy it, the buzz and the burn, but it is ever so much more fun to let the rich flavor sit on your tongue, to let it consume you instead of the other way around.

Roy has always had a hedonistic streak.

He winds the length of Ed's hair around his fingers, twists his head back so he can bite at his neck, leave his mark where he knows it will be seen tomorrow. He stays for a while, nibbles and sucks along the tender skin, before moving along and dragging his tongue across the coiled lines of Edward's scars. He tightens his fist in Ed's hair and then he lets his teeth worry at Ed's dark nipple.

“You're – _ah_ – rough tonight,” Ed notes, jumping in surprise. Roy lets up immediately, sits back to look at him but, before he can apologize, Ed hides a grin against Roy's bare shoulder.

“I kinda like it,” he admits, not ashamed but definitely somewhat flustered.

Roy cannot remember the last time anything Edward had said to him had sparked the desire in him quite so effectively, but right now his erection is straining against his constrictive pants, begging for attention.

A couple of moments and some manhandling later, Roy has Edward wrestled down on the bed, covering him with his whole body and kissing him senseless. He may not be as young and flexible as he was when they first got together, but he is far from old and feeble.

They wrangle around for a few minutes, getting each other out of their clothes, exposing skin like mapping uncharted continents, and then Roy fumbles for the phial of oil that has been so graciously displayed on the bedside table and that they hadn't had time to make use of since they had come to Xing.

He is not overly patient with opening Ed up. Maybe he should be taking things slower, considering they hadn't had sex since before they had crossed the desert, but Ed looks positively electric with being handled rougher than usual and Roy is not one to deny him.

Ed's own fingers are dancing along Roy's sides, watching as Roy finally shuffles closer and lines himself up.

Their eyes fall shut on the first push in, enjoying the first intense moments, getting used to each other again after what had been too many weeks spent in a caravan and in tents that had sand in every crevice. Then Roy rolls his hips and they rush to find their rhythm to the sound of the growing torrent outside.

When he draws out he does it slowly, but his thrusts forward are powerful. He braces one hand against one of the poles of the bed to give himself leverage. Ed holds on to his buttocks, pulling him in with every stroke, and he's got his flesh leg hitched up to allow for a better angle.

For a few minutes, there is nothing but this, heady and heaving, Roy allowing himself to let a little lose, to push a little harder maybe, as they surrender themselves to the sensations.

“Roy,” Ed laughs eventually, sounding somewhat breathless, his head dangling off the edge of the mattress where the movements have gradually pushed him along the sheets, “Roy, I'm gonna fall, just stop for a second-”

Roy does not stop.

Instead he drags Edward out of the bed with him, somehow managing to stay firmly inside of him, before hitching him up against the bed's pole. Ed, ever practical, immediately holds on as well, one hand overhead, the other at the small of his back, fingers clenched around the polished wood.

It takes a bit of grappling, but then Roy is holding him up by the ass, because a burden shared is a burden halved, that was what their marriage had always been about, even if the burden was merely Ed's weight while having some adventurous sex.

He thinks the last time they fucked like this was when Al was on a field trip in second grade. They had gone out dancing and had somehow not managed to make it past the threshold of the bedroom, instead enjoying the liberty of an empty house.

Alphonse, right now, was in a room at the opposite end of the suite, doubtlessly fast asleep after a very filling dinner and lots of excitement, and Roy and Ed had been parents before they had been lovers, so they knew how to count their blessings in that regard.

It's a bit of trial and error to find the best angle like this but, right now, it's less about skill and more about the thrill of the moment, the cool air upon their skin, the way they are so exposed if anyone where to walk in, the knowledge that they have loved each other for twelve years but that they still manage to fuck like overeager adolescents.

Ed's left hand is in Roy's hair, pulling him in, kissing him roughly, before he tilts his head back and moans, not loudly, but with utter abandon.

Roy, incensed, picks up speed, thrusting upwards, his arms tightly locked around Ed's quivering body. He can feel his own back muscles contracting, sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, running down along his spine.

“Roy,” Ed gasps, his cock caught between their bodies pressed closed, and then he is coming, skull knocked back against the pole. Roy fucks him through the last of it, growing more desperate himself, but Ed tightens his legs around him, tightens his ass, and Roy's climax hits like a tidal wave.

For a moment, they remain like this.

Exhaustion is not quite instantaneous, Roy's cock still half-hard inside of Ed. But then Ed's eyes open, a debauched smile tugging on his lips. He's still breathing heavily and Roy leans in to steal another kiss.

Eventually, the weight grows too heavy. He gathers Ed in his arms, just barely manages to set him down on the bed instead of just dropping him to the floor. Ed sprawls on the mattress, boneless, and Roy is given another chance to kiss a maze along his body.

The night is cold, though, and their own heat quickly evaporates. Fortunately, there's a basin on top of the drawers, filled with water, a wash cloth folded next to it. Roy soaks the cloth, wrings it out and then makes to gently clean them both off. Ed is butter in his hands, easily allowing the familiar touches. He keeps making small mewling noises, the aftereffects of his orgasm, and Roy knows it's only a matter of moments until he will be sound asleep.

He drags up the bed sheets to cover Ed, but does not bother to remedy his own nudity. He's got nothing to hide, neither his slowly aging body nor the scars on his skin.

When he turns around again, Ling Yao is standing next to one of the tapestries.

Roy lets out a slow measured breath.

“How long have you been watching?” he asks, feigning mild curiosity.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere,” Ling Yao says easily, “I do not need to watch.”

“Some might consider this an act of bad faith.”

Ling gives a private little smile, “I merely have an appreciation for aesthetics.”

His gaze sweeps over Ed as he says this, but then it comes back to rest on Roy once more.

“Let's stop the child's play, shall we?” Roy says, “What do you want?”

“Maybe I want him,” Ling Yao says with a vague nod towards Ed, “Maybe I want you. Maybe I want the both of you on your knees in front of me.”

Roy just watches him, waits whether there is more to this outrageous request, but there is nothing forthcoming.

“I was raised in a brothel,” Roy tells him, devoid of shame, “And my mother was a prostitute. I know a fishy suitor when I see one.”

“Curious,” Ling hums, “My mother was a concubine.”

“My aunt used to say that it's never their fathers great men take after.”

“Then I guess we are both doing our mothers proud.”

A moment of silence between them, stalemate.

“What's your agenda?” Roy asks at length.

“Peace,” Ling Yao says without hesitation, “My nation has known too many wars and my people too much bloodshed. I wish to be the one to change that. So I must avoid altercations with Drachma at all costs.”

The tensions between the two empires were old news. They ebbed and flowed like the tides of the sea, but they were never truly gone. Amestris, both too young and too small to have left a lasting impact on either of them, had so far managed to not get involved in the affairs. That is, until Roy had been forced to ask a favor of the Xingese ambassador which in turn led to this new treaty and Drachma growing more suspicious of what else Amestris had planned.

Roy swallows, not letting his nerves show on his fave. “What do you want me to do?”  
“Make nice with them,” Ling Yao surprises him, “Lick their boots if you have to. Convince them that it would be a terrible idea to try to invade us.”

“Drachmans are tough and stubborn,” Roy knows, “If they have set their mind on something, there is no easy way of derailing them. Not to mention that they don't like the fact that I am already making nice with you.”

“Then remedy that. Give them what you have given me.”

An eyeful of me fucking my husband, Roy thinks hysterically.

“And what would that be?” he asks instead.

“We have the Eastern Express. Now we need a Northern one.”

“You want me to establish secure trading routes. With Drachma.”

“ _They_ want it.”

“And I have several generals who do not,” Roy points out, very much not thinking of Oliver Armstrong.

At the end of this year, the people of Amestris would vote once more. Roy's options, in this case, were limited. He could announce his new pro-Drachma politics while he was still campaigning and lose important followers, both among the brass and the citizens. Or he could stall till after he had been re-elected and look like he had been keeping his true intentions from the people. He could also reject Ling's demand and instead potentially turn all of Xing against him.

But, he reminds himself, Ling himself had said that he wanted to avoid war. Would he really be so eager to get petty revenge over a neglected favor? It seemed unlikely.

“Does the Führer cower before his followers?” he taunts now and Roy's lips purse.

“The Führer listens to honest concerns.”

“So listen to mine,” Ling insists, “Could Amestris truly hold off a Drachman invasion?”

“No,” Roy admits because there is no point in denying the truth. General Armstrong ruled Fort Briggs with an iron fist, but so far the Drachman Tsar had not truly put all of his efforts into breaching the borders. “But neither could we afford another hundred miles of train tracks. Through the mountains, no less. ”

“Maybe you should accept donations then,” Ling hints, “From an anonymous sponsor.”

“And in exchange?” Roy wants to know, but he can't quite help himself. All of its own, his gaze drops down to Edward. Ling follows it.

And Roy cannot help but imagine Ed with a younger lover, with Ling Yao who is much like Roy in many regards, witty and handsome and composed, but also fifteen years younger. They'd be well suited to each other.

Perhaps Ling can sense his thoughts. Perhaps there is some kindness in him that supersedes the edge that the crown demands of him.

“Do not worry,” he says, “I know when I am not welcome. And my heart belongs to another.”

“One who denies you?”

“One whose duties will always come before her desires.”

Roy thinks of the shadow that always follows the emperor around, wonders whether, even now, she might be sitting in the darkness somewhere, silently watching.

“We have a proverb,” Ling tells him, “'It is easy to find a thousand soldiers, but hard to find a good general.' I believe that is even truer for a Führer. Or a Führer's husband.”

Behind Roy, the sheets rustle, the mattress dips, and then Ed is sitting up in bed. Had he actually been awake and listening in on the conversation all along? It was not like him to be so calculating but, then again, Roy enjoyed finding new aspects to him.

There is a warm sudden weight on him as Ed possessively drapes himself over Roy's shoulder. His long hair tumbles from his head, a golden cascade at Roy's periphery, and the sheets carelessly pool around his hips.

Ling Yao wants him and he cannot have him because Edward has made this choice a thousand times over and the answer would always be Roy.

“Your Majesty,” Ed says, and the title might be for Ling but the voice is right in Roy's ear, “Kindly fuck off.”

The Emperor of Xing inclines his head, his crown respectfully tipping as his gaze slips from Ed and to the floor. Then he fades back into the shadows and they are alone again.

“Fucking finally,” Ed huffs, throwing himself back onto the bed, “Honestly, couldn't you just have become a gardener or a baker or something? Did it have to be politics?”

“The Flame Baker does not quite have the same ring to it,” Roy muses and Edward laughs.

“Well, you did nearly burn down the kitchen when you-”

“Let's not talk about that,” Roy says. The palace walls already knew too many of his secrets.

“No?” Ed teases, “Then what else should we do?”

His fingers coyly drag themselves over Roy's pectorals, as though they had not just done that fifteen minutes ago. So Roy just grunts, settles down next to him.

“Sleep would be a good idea,” he says, punching a pillow into a more comfortable shape, “I'm exhausted.”

“You're such an old man,” Ed says and, from anyone else, it might sting. But Ed has seen him grow into this old man. Ed would be by his side when he would be an even older man. Ed looked at him with hope and hunger and a hundred percent certainty that the two of them had been the right decision.

“I can't wait till you are retired,” Ed adds happily, resting his head on Roy's chest to listen to his heartbeat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'aww, isn't that a nice ending? Wouldn't it be a shame... if someone were to...fuck it up?  
> I like to treat myself to some agony and, accordingly, the next part of this series will be called Other Options, Other Endings and that title already tells you all you need to know. It's a three-parter re-imagining the events in this entire series, starting when, instead of offering his spare room in the first chapter of Second Chances, Second Thoughts, Roy lets Edward wander off with baby Al in tow to fend for themselves.   
> So yes, I'm writing a canon-divergent AU of my already canon-divergent AU. Sue me.   
> The last chapter is already done and about 20 pages long because I'm stupid like that, so I don't know when I will reverse-finish the rest. I'm warning you right off the bat, it's going to be quite angsty but, if you are interested, please let me know what you would like to see and I'll try to work it in.


End file.
